


Stitches in Time

by Kyntha, rosiesbar



Series: BeforeM*A*S*H [2]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Character Death, Childhood, Christmas, Family, Gen, Gift Giving, Infant Death, Knitting, Korean War, Loss of Parent(s), Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyntha/pseuds/Kyntha, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosiesbar/pseuds/rosiesbar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"By the time Dad was up to French toast and sausages, Mom was gone. He never wanted to worry me." Daniel Pierce was never much good at talking about the big issues. Death and disease were matters he dealt with every day at work in his clinic, and yet he could never seem to talk about them at home. But as tragedy strikes the Pierce family home, a young Hawkeye needs answers, and a loving father has to learn how to talk to his grieving son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitches in Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyntha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyntha/gifts).



> We all know Hawkeye loves to knit. We're seen him in countless episodes, working away on some woolly little project in between patients. And apparently his sister knits, too, as she sends him a misshapen sweater in 'Mail Call'. But according to later episodes, Hawkeye is an only child... This story aims to tie up a few loose yarns, and fill in a few holes in the continuity of Hawkeye's back story. Contains references to adult and infant death.

** Crabapple Cove, Maine – October 19th 1919 **

The house was cold, even for the middle of October in Maine. A sheen of glistening frost covered the lawns surrounding the grey Colonial dwelling. If Josephine Pierce had glanced through the window in the hall, she would have seen the moonlight reflecting off the ice crystals, and glimmering on the ocean at the base of the cliffs.

But she wasn’t looking. Her eyes were fixed on the tiny face peeking out from the multi-coloured knitted blanket in her arms. She watched as an arm squirmed its way free of the cosy woollen confines, and tiny digits wrapped around her own finger.

“The fire’s going in the bedroom.” Daniel Pierce thumped down the stairs, rubbing his hands and shivering, his breath producing clouds of steam in the chilly air.

Josephine glanced up at the stairs. The dull ache in her lower body contrasted sharply with the pull of her stitches as she hesitantly stepped forward to the creaky wooden Everest that stood between her and her warm bed. “See, if we’d have planned ahead a little better, we’d have bought a bungalow.”

Daniel laughed. “I’ll hold Benjy, if it makes things easier.”

Josephine planned her ascent carefully. “That’s a good idea. I need both hands for this. And possibly a network of ropes and pulleys.”

Cradling his son, Daniel felt almost nervous. But a smile soon crossed his face. “He’s got my nose.”

“Poor kid,” Josephine cracked, grasping the banister and pulling herself onto the first step. She winced in pain. “He’s got your stubbornness, too,” she added, bracing herself for another step. “Trust your son to insist on coming out backwards.”

Daniel chuckled and glanced lovingly at the tiny bundle wrapped in the blanket. Benjamin Franklin Pierce, barely a few hours old, wriggled in his arms and yawned.

 

** February 3rd 1923**

Hawkeye roared and rumbled like a little motor as he pushed his truck around the edge of the rug. The wide band of off-beige was the main road, and the little red stripes that criss-crossed along the dark green middle were the dirt tracks. He’d decided his little truck was carrying timber, just like the big ones he saw lumbering along the roads nearby, destined for the sawmills that peppered the Maine countryside. He didn’t have a destination yet – he was just doing laps. He diverted around his mother’s slipper-clad feet as she sat knitting on the couch.

A ball of yarn rolled onto the carpet and across the rug. “Oh no! A rockslide!”

Hawkeye looked up at his mother, who was grinning at him as she pretended not to be responsible for the sudden geological disaster that had put Hawkeye’s timber haulage off schedule. “That was you!” he giggled, pointing at his mother.

Josephine clasped a hand over her mouth. “Well, ain’t I a klutz?” She set her knitting aside. “Tell you what, my little lumberjack, how about you take a break from the road and sit with me a while. I’ve got something to tell you, and I think you’ll find it fascinating!” Josephine patted the couch beside her.

Hawkeye abandoned his timber shipment and climbed up, his tiny legs dangling a good foot above the floor. “What is it, Momma?”

Josephine picked up her needles, and, with a wide grin, held up the beginnings of a tiny sweater.

“Who do you think this is for?”

Hawkeye reached out and touched the soft, fine yarn. It was so delicate, almost fluffy, and the garment was tiny. “It’s too small for me…” His little brow creased in thought.

Josephine laughed and ruffled his hair. “That’s right, it is, isn’t it. So it can’t be for you.” Her smile widened, and she could contain her news no longer. “How would you like a brother or a sister?”

Hawkeye’s face lit up. “Oh yes, can we go get one _now_?” He was practically bouncing on the couch beside her.

Josephine gathered her son in her arms. “Not yet, sweetheart. These things take… quite a while to arrive.” She smiled and patted the bump that had been growing steadily under her winter woollens since the Fall.

“Do they bring babies on trucks?”

“Uh… no. No, nothing like that. But we’ll tell you when it’s time.”

“But _when_ , Momma?”

Josephine smiled. “Oh, it’s hard to say with these things, my darling. But if your father’s right, and he usually is, it’ll be at the beginning of Springtime.”

And so, for the next six weeks, Hawkeye would ask excitedly over breakfast, each and every morning, “Is it spring yet?” Somehow, Josephine never got tired of hearing it.

 

** March 15th 1923**

The front door opened, and Hawkeye was already off the couch and thundering through the hall as fast as his little legs could carry him. His aunt Martha yelled his name, and even Billy looked up from his board game and made a grab for his little cousin.

But Hawkeye was out in the hall and jumping up and down before his father had even closed the door. “Can I see?!” he squealed, grinning from ear to ear. “Can I see? Can I see?” Josephine glanced down at the bundle in her arms. The knitted blanket was now a little faded, and the tiny face that peeked out from inside was a little different from the one that had gazed up at her three and half years ago in this same hallway – the very face that was beaming at her now with pleading eyes and a hopeful expression.

Hawkeye’s excited litany continued until Daniel scooped him up in his arms, practically vibrating with excitement as his mother stepped closer, angling the tiny bundle just so. Hawkeye gasped, his hands going up to his face, and his mouth hanging open in sheer delight. “This is Elizabeth. She’s your little sister.”

Hawkeye made a quiet squeak of excitement. “Can I give her a kiss?”

Josephine and Daniel glanced at one another. “ _Very gently_!” The words came out almost in unison.

And Hawkeye kissed her.

 

** Searsport, Maine – December 25th 1923**

His mother’s laughter pealed out like the cry of a particularly amused sea bird, and she slapped her knee, almost spilling her gin and tonic as she rocked back and forth in her chair. Hawkeye watched her, giggling at her antics. Baby Elizabeth gurgled happily and bounced on her grandfather’s knee. Aunt Martha fussed over the dinner table, and Hawkeye’s grandmother politely requested for the third time could Billy stop running his new toy train up and down the hall.

Hawkeye tore at the wrapping of his final present. Inside, he found a soft, knitted patchwork blanket – four dozen little squares, each a different colour, all stitched together. He pressed it to his face, finding the wool soft and fluffy, like the one in the baby’s crib.

“Who’s it from, Hawkeye?” Daniel asked quietly from his corner, ignoring the look of disapproval he got from his father-in-law over his son’s nickname.

Hawkeye rummaged through the paper for the tag. "From: 'Lizbeth." He read aloud.

His words initiated a subtle rustle of movement, as his mother, aunt and grandmother each exchanged knowing looks and smiles.

“Did she make it?”

The looks were now followed by quiet giggles from his aunt and grandmother, and an amused, slightly derisive, snort from his grandfather. Josephine smiled broadly. “Of course she did, my darling.”

Hawkeye beamed, and raced over to give his sister a kiss. “Thank you, ‘Lizbeth.”

Josephine Pierce sat back, smiling contentedly into her gin and tonic, and giving her father a slightly pointed look.

 

** Crabapple Cove – December 1924 **

It had been quiet for days. Hawkeye didn’t understand why there wasn’t more excitement – it would be Christmas soon, but there was no talk of going to visit family, and his father had yet to drag home a pine tree from the nearby woodland.

His mother rarely came downstairs. Baby Elizabeth slept for much of the day now, which was strange because only last week she was toddling around the living room, holding onto the furniture as she learned to co-ordinate her chubby little legs. Now, Hawkeye barely saw her. Maybe she was tired from learning to walk?

Occasionally, Josephine Pierce would stagger silently down from the nursery, her face drawn and pale, and drop heavily into the chair at the head of the kitchen table with an exhausted sigh. Daniel would wordlessly push a cup of coffee in her direction.

She would look up, and always, without fail and without a smile, crack the same joke: “Is there brandy in there?”

And Daniel would smile weakly and reply: “Maybe later.”

A few minutes later and a cough or a weak cry would ring out from the nursery, and Josephine would be on her feet again, abandoning her coffee. Daniel would make a halting offer to go, but Josephine would wave a hand and head for the door. “I got this. It’s all good.”

Hawkeye missed them both. He missed the fun and the silliness and his mother’s boisterous laugh. He missed his nightly ritual: Every night, after he had been wrestled into his pyjamas, he would come barrelling through the nursery and request to be lifted up to the crib to kiss Elizabeth goodnight. His mother would oblige, and Hawkeye would be suspended over the sleeping baby, his hand sinking into the woollen blankets as he supported himself, and press a very gentle kiss to her fluffy little head. “Goodnight, Sis,” he would say, and then he would toddle off to bed.

A week ago, his mother had told him no. The kisses stopped, and so did all their games. Now, his mother just sat beside Elizabeth’s crib, hardly moving, and never playing. This new ritual took precedent over mealtimes and games and even sleep.

Without a word, Hawkeye moved his game of dominos upstairs and sat on the landing, carefully lining the colourful little pieces up, one after the other, stood on their ends so they would fall just so and take their fellows with them.

For hours he sat, playing quietly in a way that was most unusual for him. The pattern began to meander in intricate swirls across the floor.

His mother’s voice made him startle. A domino fell from his fingers and landed on the top step with a loud clatter.

“ _DANIEL_!”

Josephine’s voice rang out again. There was another clatter, and the domino fell end-over-end onto the next step, and then the next… and the next…

Hawkeye ran through to the nursery. The door was ajar, and he reached up and pushed it. It swung open, and hit the dresser with a thud. He was only thinly aware that what he had walked into the middle of was something unusual. His mother was kneeling on the floor, holding Elizabeth in her arms. Only she was not holding her to her shoulder as she often did when she was soothing her or trying to get her to sleep. Nor was she lifting her up playfully as she kicked and wriggled, laughing at her mother.

Instead, the baby hung limply in Mrs Pierce’s arms, her head tilted back, lifeless and quite unnatural. Hawkeye stood staring, paralysed in the doorway.

His mother screamed again, and his father soon appeared in the room, pushing Hawkeye aside almost roughly as he dashed to his wife’s aid.

“Daddy?”

Daniel turned for a moment but barely glanced at him. “Benjy, wait outside,” he instructed, his voice strange and tight.

“But…'Lizbeth...”

“ _Outside_!”

The door was pushed closed in front of him.

Hawkeye walked away, trying to make sense of what he had just seen. In the hallway, he found his dominoes scattered from where Daniel had rushed through, sending them tumbling in their neat little rows.

One section had not fallen, and Hawkeye, strangely drawn to this tiny cluster of coloured bricks standing to attention in the midst of so much chaos, tapped them with his toe. They tumbled down, one after the other, and then, through the heavy door at the far end of the landing, Hawkeye heard his mother let out a wail.

* * *

“He’s been like this for days. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if it’s something I did or…”

“I’m sure he’s just grieving.”

“Could you talk to him, Daniel?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist!”

“Nobody’s asking you to be! He’s your _son_ , not a patient, God damn it…”

Daniel glanced over to the couch, where his son was curled up in a ball, hugging his knees to his chest – a position from which he hadn’t moved since his parents had got back from the funeral.

“Hawkeye, this has been a sad day for all of us. Are you sure you won’t give Mommy a hug?”

Hawkeye couldn’t think of anything scarier. He flinched away, the memory of those same hands clutching the lifeless body of his sister burning in his mind. He covered his eyes. “No.”

Josephine gave a distressed sigh, leaning heavily on the mantelpiece. The photograph of their daughter that had sat on the coffin at the funeral now resided there, and she stared sorrowfully at it for a moment. Then, without a word, she left them alone.

Hawkeye and Daniel sat in silence. Dr. Pierce was not good with words, but his son seemed to take after his mother in that regard, so he hoped that Hawkeye would spare him on this occasion. In the end, he did, but with words Daniel never expected to hear: “Daddy? What did Mommy do to the baby?”

Daniel recoiled. “Mommy didn’t do anything to the baby. Why would you say a thing like that?”

Hawkeye hid his face again, sensing he was in trouble.

“Hawkeye, is that why you’re so scared around Mommy? Do you think she hurt the baby?”

A nod, and a sniff.

“I promise, Mommy would never do that.”

“But ‘Lizbeth died.”

Daniel swallowed. “Yes… she did. But that’s what happens sometimes.”

“No. Old people die. People are born and they get old and then they get sick and die. ‘Lizbeth had only just been born, so how could she die? She wasn’t old enough to have anything wrong with her.”

Shaking his head, Daniel tried desperately to find the words. “That’s… not how it works, Hawk. Our bodies… everything…” He paused, glancing as his son sat beside him, his eyes wide, desperate for an explanation. “Do you know what ‘pneumonia’ is, Hawkeye?”

Hawkeye shook his head.

“Pneumonia is what happens when you get an infection in the lungs. You know where your lungs are, don’t you?”

Hawkeye gave his father a look as if to say ‘what am I, stupid?’ then placed a hand on his chest and breathed in and out rapidly with exaggerated gasping.

“That’s right. Now, the lungs are made up of thousands of tiny little sacs called alveoli, and sometimes, they can get infected, like when you get a cold or the flu. And when that happens…”

Josephine Pierce sat in the kitchen, barely listening to the conversation going on between her husband and son. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she had to get supper ready, but somehow couldn’t bring herself to care. It was like her whole being ached with the loss of her daughter, body and soul. Her hands didn’t want to move, her legs didn’t want to take her weight, and her mind didn’t want to focus.

She rose, with some effort, from the table, and pulled her shawl around her as she crept out into the hall. She felt like an old woman, hunched and frail, taking tiny steps so as not to disturb the intense conversation in the next room.

She peeked through.

Daniel was talking about pleural effusions and septicaemia and other things she didn’t care to think on, and Hawkeye was staring up at him with eager, earnest little eyes. This wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she’d asked him to talk, but she didn’t have the heart or strength to stop him now.

Without saying a word, she took to her bed.

She stayed there for several hours, unable to face another evening where her son recoiled from her touch and shook his head defiantly when she asked him for a kiss.

Only once he had been sent up to get washed and dressed did Josephine venture downstairs. She claimed the couch as her own and spread out with her knitting bag and her yarn. Daniel watched silently from the corner as she clicked away with her needles, staring into space. No – at the photograph.

Daniel didn’t know what to say to his grieving wife any more than he had known what to say to his son, and he suspected there was no information in any of his textbooks that could help in this case. She just sat and stared and knitted, and Daniel sat and fretted.

At last, he stood, and crossed the immeasurable distance to his wife’s side, sinking onto the couch in the tiny space she had left. “So,” he asked, picking up some needles, “how does this work?”

And his wife smiled. He hadn’t seen her smile since before ‘Lizbeth got sick…

Together, they sat and knitted, Josephine’s hands gently guiding his as he cast his stitches on, and then immediately proceeded to drop them a row later. Then, she looked up.

“Hawkeye, why are you out of bed?”

Hawkeye just stared for a moment, then rubbed his eyes, sleepy and tearful. And then, he pointed up to the photograph of his sister where it sat high above him on the mantelpiece. “I want to kiss ‘Lizbeth goodnight.”

Daniel glanced at his wife. There was a moment of thought, and, at last, somewhat cautiously, he stood to lift his son up for his goodnight kiss as Josephine had done every night for the past twenty months.

“No,” Hawkeye said. “I want Momma. Momma always does it. I want Momma.”

He held up his arms to her, and for the first time in weeks, Josephine’s heart leapt a little. Without a moment’s hesitation, she set her knitting aside and scooped her son up to the mantel. “Go right ahead, my darling.”

Hawkeye did. “Goodnight…Sis.”

The words were spoken so softly that Josephine could barely hear them. Then, Hawkeye turned, gazing up at his mother, shaking slightly, tears streaming down his face. “Momma?”

Josephine drew a shaky breath. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“I’m sorry, Momma.”

A sob escaped her. Holding him tightly, she cradled his head and stroked his hair, and, somewhere in the midst of her sadness, she found the strength to be grateful for what she had left.

 

** January 1925**

Hawkeye stood in the hallway while his mother buttoned up his little duffle coat for his first day back. The house was still strange and tense, his mother unusually quiet, but Hawkeye felt glad to be going back to school.

Josephine’s eyes glistened a little as she hugged him. “I’m sorry we didn’t do much for Christmas, my darling,” she murmured as she handed him his school bag, “but, if it makes any difference, we’ve got a very special present for you right here that Santa just delivered!”

Daniel handed over a paper parcel, silent but smiling as his wife presented their son with his single, belated Christmas gift:

It was a teddy bear, knitted out of pure white yarn and with bright blue buttons for eyes and a narrow little red scarf around its neck. On its head, there was a slightly misshapen red triangle…

“What’s that on his head?”

“It’s a Santa hat! He’s a Christmas bear!” Daniel tried not to sound insulted. “The scarf’s okay though, right?”

“He’s fantastic!” Hawkeye beamed.

Josephine shot Daniel a triumphant smile.

“Is he from ‘Lizbeth?”

Hawkeye’s question was met with stunned silence. Josephine and Daniel exchanged looks again, this time hesitant and conflicted. At last, it was Josephine who spoke, her voice hitching slightly. “Yes, he is, my darling,” she whispered, hugging him tightly again. “Of course he is.”

When Hawkeye dashed over to the fireplace, he didn’t even have to ask to be lifted up.

 

** April 1930**

Six weeks.

It had been six weeks since his mother had retired to her bed a little earlier than usual, and then hadn’t got up again.

He hadn’t thought it was unusual at first. His mother did this from time to time. Suddenly, she could go from being the life and soul of the house, boisterous and loud and laughing at everything, to refusing to leave her bed for a week. This was nothing unusual. Nobody could be that energetic all of the time, he figured. His father agreed it was nothing to worry about.

The only difference was instead of relying on a piece of toast he could make himself so as not to disturb anyone, his dad had starting fixing him breakfast. First it was just cornflakes. The morning his mother went to the hospital, it was eggs and bacon.

Hawkeye hadn’t gone out to see her before Dad settled her into the car. He remembered how he used to try and keep her company during her down days, but she would just sit and stare out of the window. She wouldn’t talk to him, she wouldn’t play, and she wouldn’t laugh. He missed her laugh the most…

“I’m sorry, my darling,” she would say. “I just don’t feel like playing right now.”

Children weren’t allowed at the hospital. Dad may have been able to pull a few strings to sneak him in, but he didn’t offer, and Hawkeye didn’t ask. He left her alone, figuring she wanted some peace and quiet. He was a big boy now, at ten years old. He knew when to stay out of the way and let her get better.

Only she didn’t get better. His father came home from the hospital with the news, stumbling over the words. That morning, he made Hawkeye his favourite: French toast and sausages. Hawkeye sniffed a sausage before taking a bite, but he didn’t feel like eating. Gazing tearfully across the table, he watched as his father continued to stir his coffee. At last, he looked up, meeting his son’s pleading stare. And, in his clinical tone, he spoke. “Do you know what polio is, Benjy?”

Of course he did. Even if he hadn't read about it in one of his Dad's medical journals, everyone knew.

The night of the funeral, he stood in the doorway to his father’s study, watching him as he pored over his schedule for the coming week, his heart set on returning to work the next day.

“Dad?” Hawkeye’s voice sounded cracked and strange. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted, or expected, his father to say.

Daniel turned, looking at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Not now, son, I… It’s late and… I’ve got some things to do. We’ll talk later, okay.”

Hawkeye felt rage flare up in his chest. He’d heard those same words time and time again and ‘later’ never came. His eyes stung with tears, and he ran down the hall to his room. His dad _never_ talked to him. Never told him his mom was sick. Never told him she was dying. Never told him that she might not be coming home… He never thought he could feel this way, but he hated him. _Hated him_.

Slamming the door, he threw himself onto his bed, burying his face in his patchwork blanket. The crash of the door reverberated through the old wooden house, and, a moment later, a frame fell off the wall.

Hawkeye looked up, startled. The large blue frame sat crookedly, wedged down the back of his toy box, the glass intact but the contents protruding and askew. He found himself staring at it for a moment, his anger dissipating. It was a prize he’d won for a school project that had required little more than a cursory glance at one of the biology books his father had bought him for Christmas. He hadn’t had to work hard. He hadn’t done anything impressive. His knowledge wouldn’t change the world or cure the sick or save lives. It all seemed so… pointless.

Snatching the frame from the space between the toy box and the wall, he tossed the certificate aside and ran downstairs, clambering up onto the bookshelves that filled the chimney nook and running his finger along the spines of the family photo albums that adorned the top-most shelf. He knew which one he wanted…

The photograph of his mother had been taken at the drug store in Camden. She’d only taken Hawkeye in to have some snaps done to send to her relations overseas, but Hawkeye had insisted that she be photographed too. It was a beautiful sepia portrait, clear enough to look sharp and perfect, but soft enough to be almost ethereal. Hawkeye slipped the picture of his mother behind the glass, secured the frame, and placed her up on the mantelpiece, next to baby Elizabeth.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, his cheek resting against the hard edge of the mantel. He’d cried, but he hadn’t made a sound. At last, the sound of his father descending from his study broke his reverie, and Hawkeye lifted his head. “Hawkeye, it’s late. Don’t you think it’s time for…”

Daniel stopped in the doorway. His eyes flickered across from his son, to the photograph of his late daughter, and then to the other of his wife. He didn’t know what to say. He never did, that was his problem.

“… bed, yeah, I know.” Hawkeye finished for him, half asleep already. He glanced once more at the photographs on the mantel, and, elaborating upon a ritual that had been in place now for five years, he kissed his mother and his sister.

As he passed his father on his way to bed, he didn’t expect him to say anything.

Daniel caught his arm gently, stopping him at the foot of the stairs. Hawkeye stopped. His father had a look of melancholy about him these days, his face that much more lined, his eyes sad and constantly red, his lips drawn in worry. As always, Daniel didn’t speak, but his lip trembled and his eyes began to glisten, and his hand tightened a little around his son’s wrist.

Hawkeye fell sobbing into his father’s arms, and Daniel lowered himself to the stairs. He sat cradling his son for a long time, comforting and consoling, and also, Hawkeye sensed, apologising. Sometimes, it seemed, no words were needed.

 

** Portland, Maine – September 1937**

“Dad, will you stop? You’ll see me in time for Christmas! I’ll be back before you know it!”

Hawkeye was almost embarrassed. Here they were in the middle of the bus station, and his father was almost successfully fighting back tears and sniffling into a handkerchief.

“That’s too long!” Daniel replied, biting his lip a little. “You take care of yourself, do you hear? I don’t expect to hear about you doing anything stupid!”

Hawkeye decided not to respond to that part – he had every intention of doing every stupid thing he could think of, but countering it by being immensely clever at medical school. He scanned the departure boards again for his bus, and gave a delighted cry as he saw the station master scrawl ‘BOSTON’ onto the destination list and a number 3 in the column marked ‘STAND’.

“That’s my bus! Boston bus, stand number three!” He grabbed his bag and began to push through the crowds that bustled along the terminus, all trying to find their designated stand.

The Boston bus was already waiting when Hawkeye and Daniel reached the stand.

“I’m gonna get on now!”

“You’re that desperate to get away from your old man?”

Hawkeye beamed. “No – there’s a cute girl on the back seat.”

Rolling his eyes, Daniel handed the rest of Hawkeye’s luggage to the porter. His cases were soon tucked away in the back, and Hawkeye hitched his satchel up onto his shoulder.

“Well, I guess this is ‘see you in three months’?”

Daniel hesitated for a moment. “Hawkeye, I…”

They both stopped for a moment, standing perfectly still as the other travellers bustled around them.

Yet again in his life, Daniel had no words. Instead, he held up a large paper bag he’d been concealing in his coat since they’d got out of the car… “I have something for you,” he explained, “to keep you warm in the winter. I didn’t want to wait until Christmas, and you’ll probably be drinking in Boston on your birthday and… well…”

He trailed off, allowing Hawkeye to open the parcel.

“What the heck?” Hawkeye stared in disbelief as he pulled out what appeared to be a scarf – hundreds and hundreds of tiny pieces of knitted yarn, each roughly rectangular in shape (some rougher than others), sewn together in a giant length that ran for about nine feet, varying in width as it went. He threw his head back and cackled – a deeper, baritone echo of his mother’s laugh – then gave his father a look that was half amusement, half incredulity. “Let me guess – from Elizabeth, right?”

“Something like that.” Daniel gave him a half smile.

“Hmm, I can tell by the craftsmanship that it must have been made by a very small child…”

“Hey! It took her a _very_ long time!” Daniel wagged his finger, trying not to laugh.

The smile faded slightly from Hawkeye’s lips, replaced with something else as he ran his fingers over the wool. “I love it,” he said gently. “I didn’t even know that you…”

“You probably don’t remember, but your mother taught me when...” Daniel sounded almost embarrassed. “I still do it at times. For comfort, more than anything, I guess.”

Hawkeye nodded. “You certainly don’t do it for the results.”

Daniel gave him a playful swat on the arm.

“I’m kidding! Didn’t I say I love it?”

“Give me enough yarn and another fifteen years and I’ll make you a sweater!”

“Oh no! I couldn’t possibly! This is enough! Really!” Hawkeye wrapped the scarf around himself several times, already sweating in the September sun. As he mummified himself right there in the bus station, the station master made the last call for Boston. There was a surge of bodies. The people who had been loitering at the stand saying goodbye to their loved ones suddenly bolted for their bus.

“Hawkeye?” Daniel said again catching Hawkeye’s arm. He gave his son a gentle smile, his eyes creasing and glinting a little in the sun. “Remember, if you need anything, or… or if you just want to talk, or if things aren’t going well and you need to… you know… just call me. You let me know if there’s _anything_ I can do.”

Hawkeye nodded, swallowing hard. He blinked a couple of times, sniffed and hugged his father tightly as the last of his fellow passengers pushed past them. “There’s one thing you can do for me.”

“What’s that?”

He released his father, smiling, his eyes sparkling. “Kiss Mom and Sis for me?” With those words, he turned to board.

Daniel nodded. “I will,” he said quietly, as Hawkeye stepped up onto the bus. “You take care of yourself, Benjy.”

Hawkeye turned shooting a grin over his shoulder. Then the doors closed, and the bus pulled away.

 

** Uijeongbu, Korea – April 1st 1951**

Hawkeye pulled the misshapen, oversized sweater around his body to ward against the gust of wind that rushed through the crack in his tent door and turned back to his letter: _“Dear Dad: Thank Sis for the sweater she made me. It's almost as nice as the socks she knitted, one of which I use as a sleeping bag. Elizabeth’s latest creation is perfect. While it didn’t make it in time for the winter, I'll be sure to wear it into the spring until heatstroke sets in. After that, I expect it'll double up nicely as my Halloween costume next October. I'm going as Quasimodo.”_

He fingered the warm wool on the cuff of the sweater momentarily. _“Radar came in a few minutes ago to say there’s a big push for Hill 428 and we should expect casualties in the next hour. If we get lucky today, no one will find need to put a picture on the mantel tonight. Morbid thought, yet everything about this place morbid. I suppose I should close this so it’ll go out in the next truck. Take care of yourself, Dad. I miss you. Kiss Mom and Sis for me. Hawkeye.”_


End file.
